


The Lord of Misrule

by HolRose



Series: Soft stories for the festive season in these trying times [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Good at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Feast of Fools, Fluff, Gabriel is a bully, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, New Year's Eve, Slow Dancing, Twelfth Night - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28434060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/pseuds/HolRose
Summary: It is Twelfth Night, the culmination of the Feast of Fools over the festive period in Henry VIII’s London. Aziraphale, on assignment in the city, enjoys the celebrations, not realising that he is about to see his adversary, Crowley, in a very different role from that he usually adopts. Aziraphale finds unexpected joy and comfort in their meeting. With a present-day coda on New Year’s Eve 2020 in Mayfair.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Soft stories for the festive season in these trying times [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058882
Comments: 14
Kudos: 31





	The Lord of Misrule

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Omensfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omensfan/gifts).



> For Omens Fan who has been a constant reader and is very kind. Happy New Year to you!
> 
> With thanks to my Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) for everything and to my friends LibbyFay and WanderingBard3 for support and snek hugs.
> 
> Happy New Year to you all. Keep safe and I hope 2021 brings you everything you dream of.
> 
> All comments and kudos gratefully received

**London, Twelfth Night, 1512/13 1 **

It was bitter cold, the water in the Thames was frozen along the edges, but the temperature had not dropped for long enough to freeze right across the breadth of the river, as it had in years gone by. Aziraphale could see his breath as he waited, one of many lining the road, for the pageant to begin.

The shuttered buildings loomed behind him against the margins of the street, their upper stories leaning drunkenly towards each other as if desperate to embrace. The walls and eaves were lit sporadically by the braziers dotted along the streets, beams and windowsills wavering in the hot air that surrounded each one like a corona. The revellers, their faces seeming to leer and contort with the flickering light and shadow from the flames in front of them, laughed, ate and drank copiously and with abandon. It was the final night of the Feast of Fools, twelve days of unbridled celebration around the holy days of Christmas, a time when every man, woman and child was freed from the yoke of work to celebrate without guilt or fear of censure.

The angel loved this time of year. The people over whom he had his dominion struggled through their short and wearisome lives, the poorest of them worn down with their constant preoccupations: enough to eat, warmth, keeping a roof above them that did not let the water in through the seasons of this country’s capricious climate. It was good to watch them relax, have some respite from care, see the lines of merriment grace their countenances, rather than those of strain. He knew it did not behove him to approve of excess, but could not see the harm in it. A little pleasure was the condiment that seasoned lives of rote work and the all-pervasive guilt that passed for the relationship between people and their God at this time.

The customs of the church were often a source of frustration to Aziraphale. He despaired continually at the notions of propriety peddled by the priesthood, how women were so often set aside as unclean, and with them, all those who by their orientation or how they chose to love, subverted that which had been falsely written as correct. He stood by them, and offered comfort, seeking to provide a safe harbour where he could, knowing She would not want them to feel as outcast as they were forced to be.

Happily, there was the occasional respite. Here, for these twelve fleeting days of convivial chaos, everyone was allowed to indulge in pure sensual enjoyment. For this short interlude, all were subjects not of King or Bishop, but the capricious whims of the notorious Lord of Misrule.

Each year in autumn, the Church and Trade Incorporations ratified the election of a person from amongst the populace to organise and lead the Yuletide celebrations. The Lord of Misrule reigned for twelve days and nights, a time to be devoted to carousing, with all the usual rules of propriety set aside. Aziraphale had watched through the years as this celebration evolved from the rites of years past, a propitiation of pagan deities at the time of Winter Solstice, held in hope and fear against the return of the sun and the renewed quickening of the earth.

In this, the year of Our Lord fifteen hundred and twelve, the Worshipful Company of Mercers were responsible for the election of this unruly Yuletide official, and had chosen a likely fellow from amongst their number. It had been, as Aziraphale heard tell, a particularly rambunctious occasion. The feasts had been cornucopian, the drink plentiful, the carousing loud, the pranks and jokes played extreme, sparing nobody, status notwithstanding.

This evening, Aziraphale had partaken well. Of roast woodcock, sweet breads and cake. Of spiced mead, shrub and warm cider. He was feeling replete and convivial, quite at ease with the world around him, looking benevolently about him at the humans disporting themselves, delight in how brightly their lives burned showing in the shine of his eyes, his smiles and the small subtle blessings he bestowed on every person who crossed his path.

God knew, it wasn’t as if they didn’t deserve some good fortune, every single one of them. It had been a hard year for London. That summer there had been a devastating fire at the heart of the city. When it had started, Aziraphale had feared that it was going to be as catastrophic as the one of eight hundred years previously. He minded that occasion well, it turned up in his dreams sometimes, and he would wake with a cry, sweat drenched and trembling.

_He was working, filthy with soot and river water, organising a chain of people handling drenched leather buckets when he had felt it, turned and been confronted by Gabriel, manifest at his side, face dark with fury. With a snap they were away from the humans he had been helping and there was a restraining grip on his shoulder, fingers grinding into the joint, so harsh he had seen the dark mark of a large thumb against the flat plane of his back in the mirror when changing his torn and soot-smeared shirt afterwards. The bridge was burning, the people who had fled to it trapped by walls of flame. He wanted,_ **_needed_ ** _to go to them. Gabriel, behind him, was restraining him effortlessly with his one hand, lecturing him in those deliberate, measured tones of his that contained a well-directed hint of menace, every time._

“ _You are here to see that they turn to the light, not to save them from their foolishness. Let them be, Aziraphale, they have made their choices, and now it is Her will that they should burn. And as a lesson, stay, and watch…”_

_And he held him there, forcing him to see. The official directive arrived the next day instructing him not to be so frivolous with his miracles again. He had walked the smouldering, smoke-stained ruins of the city unobserved, tearstained wretched and conflicted._

The burning of the Palace of Westminster this time, though devastating to the building, had not seen such loss of life, but it had hit the city hard, the centre of their government destroyed, and there had been a sense of mourning across the populace since then.

Additionally, the new King was still establishing his personal style, not three years on the throne yet, and newly married to his Catherine, after some wrangling with the Bishops over the propriety of marriage with his dead brother’s intended. There was a sense of fragile equilibrium that might be unbalanced at any time by a misjudged action of those men of the nobility who hung about the Royal household, vying with each other for a chance to influence the King.

Aziraphale, currently a priest in the household of Thomas Wolsey, the King’s Almoner, was working to try to influence the man towards the path of righteousness. The initial signs were good: if the young Henry could be persuaded to a strong marriage that would last, an unwavering support for the Church and a disinclination to waste the lives of men on fruitless military campaigns, Aziraphale felt sure that the country could brought to prosperity once more2. After almost half a century of what amounted to civil war, it was what the worn-out people needed.

It was a release for them then, this riotous Christmas feast, a chance to put aside their cares and let nothing more virtuous than their fancies guide them. As sparks from the brazier nearest the angel shot up into the freezing blackness of the London sky with the addition of another log, the beating of drums and the melodious confusion of flutes, horns and strings announced the imminent arrival of the Lord of Misrule and his merry retinue.

Aziraphale felt relatively safe in the body of the crowd, but then a ruddy faced man just in front of him turned and frowned as he noticed what he was wearing, stepped aside and gestured for him to move past and take his place.

“Here, Father, you go afore me, now.”

He could only think his current contentment was affecting those around him, for suddenly, all were concerned that he should have the optimum vantage point to see the spectacle, and the crowd opened before him, hands urging him forward until he found himself at the front of it, feet planted into the filth of the thoroughfare. He felt flustered from stuttering out his thanks to the smiling faces as he passed them, and wrung his hands together at his waist as he settled his clothing and looked ahead, curiosity rising in him as his embarrassment died away.

The flicker of torches preceded the entertainment, the wayward light throwing grotesque shadows running like smoke up the walls of the buildings they passed as they rounded the corner in front of the waiting crowd where Aziraphale stood. There was a band of them, in motley, capering and prancing just ahead of the musicians. Their Lord was the tallest of them, the one around whom the others in attendance to him revolved. He was lithe, jumping higher than the rest, whirling and kicking as the music played, hair like fire twisting around his face as he writhed and spun. The spare figure appeared in parti-coloured velvet, doublet and breeches slashed to reveal silk panels of all hues. There were bells around the scarlet of each slim silk clad ankle, the silvery chime of them just audible above the music now and again as he leapt and darted about, crossing and recrossing the roadway.

The Lord’s little company made mischief amongst the crowd. As they sang and chanted, they singled people out. A pinch to a rump here, a kiss to a blushing cheek or pair of shocked lips there, provoking squeals and screams of laughter amongst the soused spectators, scandalised and delighted. The men and boys were masked, their eyes bright and wicked against the black scraps of silk they wore about their heads.

He should have thought to wear a hat, his halo of pale hair was always trouble when it came to such things. Aziraphale stepped back, thinking to vanish into the crowd again but was trapped by the solidity of the bodies that he felt behind him. He was dithering about turning to leave when he heard the familiar voice hailing him.

“What have we here?”

The section of the crowd he stood amongst bayed, sensing a victim, each member of it relieved it wasn’t them.

“A priest, and a prosperous one too, I’ll warrant…”

The tone, amused, indulgent, _fond_. He knew it well, the teasing, and what lay behind it.

He ducked his head on being addressed, looked up and the breath caught in his throat. That sly, lopsided grin, those sharp white teeth, the red pout of the lower lip, all familiar. Something beautiful amidst the plain, blunt, imperfect faces of the humans that surrounded them. The figure’s hair glowed carmine in the fiery light, the fine planes of his face and long lines of him, sinuous and somehow regal in his silk velvet. Despite himself, Aziraphale felt his lips upturn, his eyes narrow, his cheeks tighten with his pleasure. The name dropped from his lips unbidden, whispered with a plume of breath into the cold night air.

“ _Crowley._ ”

“Now, my fine fellow, will you not take a turn with me?”

Aziraphale felt the heat rising in his cheeks as Crowley, before him now, solid and sleek, allowed a wide smirk to grace his thin cheeks as he gazed upon the angel, revealing the tell-tale dimple in each of them that spoke of his genuine amusement. There was pleasure there, and encouragement too, as his head nodded, an outstretched hand beckoning the angel towards him. This was sport, yes, but not unkindly meant. Still, it wouldn’t do, he needed to get away and not be pulled in to whatever mischief the demon was planning to prosecute against him. He shook his head convulsively, raising both hands, palm out, in a gesture of negation.

“Woulds’t thou refuse thy liege lord this night, Sir Priest?”

Then the slim warmth of Crowley’s fingers were wrapping themselves around his own softer, broader ones, turning them down into his grasp. The feeling of the demon’s hands on his was gentle, a thumb stroking over his knuckles softly even as he tugged at them lightly to urge the angel into the street. Glassy eyed and stupefied at the shock of it, Aziraphale could not help his reaction to this contact.

No-one touched him usually. The contrast between the gentle insistence of Crowley, the heat of his hands, his smile, and the rare touches he received unasked for from his fellow angels when they hailed him and slapped his back, or punched the meat of his bicep, or just held on to him sometimes, his elbow, his shoulder, cold digits like a vice digging in to his flesh, struck him forcefully. Wordlessly he curled his fingers about those of his adversary, and allowed himself to be drawn away from the people around him and out into the middle of the street.

Once there, Crowley released his hands, and, placing his right leg out in front of him, turned to offer up his elbow, inclining his head so that nose was level with Aziraphale’s, with an accompanying cocky grin. Aziraphale took it, gingerly, looking at Crowley’s face in front of his, the music and laughter around him fading out as he met the demon’s golden eye behind his mask. Everything seemed to slow down for a moment and then he heard words in a low voice

“It’s alright, angel, I’ve got you. Just a little turnabout, and then I’ll let you go. Gives the crowd a laugh and shows you are a good sport, a wee boost for the clergy and everybody's happy.”

He nodded, and managed an uncertain smile. Now that he could think a little straighter he noted how very good indeed it was to see Crowley again. He slipped his arm into the crook the demon made for him with his own, and drew the other close so they were standing nose to nose, feeling the nearness of the other’s body as a flush of heat that rushed through him. This close he could see the paint on Crowley’s face, slipping now with sweat that gave his skin a sheen, smell the smoky embers of him, feel hot breath between them as his wiry chest heaved from his exertions.

The arm against his tightened, and the music and laughter around him started up again as Crowley pulled away, using the place where their elbows joined as a fulcrum to spin him round. Aziraphale moved his feet and leaned out, counterbalancing the motion of his dancing partner, and soon they were whirling about each other. Aziraphale felt an unexpected euphoria rise within him, and could not help release the sound that bubbled up within his chest. Crowley turned his head and caught the yelp of laughter, his face, too, creasing into an open mouthed smile, then he tilted his head back and the sudden bark of his laugh mingled with that of the angel.

Aziraphale, for this little moment suspended in time, was gleeful and a little giddy. It was wonderful. He may not have been made to do this, but dancing gave him a freedom he had never known before. It was wild and primal and so, so good. Only Crowley would have thought to do this for him, to draw him out of himself like this. He wondered sometimes if the demon saw his condition and sought to remedy it, even for just a few precious moments. He was often sad at the world, preoccupied and burdened with care. Crowley seemed to understand and rescued him from himself from time to time with the offer of a drink, a meal or simple company and conversation.

Crowley was strong, but Aziraphale could match him. They took turns at leading their meandering dance, and made a jerky progress along the street for a little while. Aziraphale, full of sweet things and strong drink, found even his angelic senses grew dizzy after a time, and he raised his unoccupied hand in defeat, dragging his feet to slow their revolutions.

“Huh, ooh, Cr-Crowley, we must stop, I shall be sick if we continue.”

They slowed, leaning into each other and then came staggering to a halt, both dizzy from their spinning. Crowley let the angel loose, and he tottered for a moment before getting his wayward feet back under his control. His face was flushed and shining with little beads of sweat by his hairline. Crowley was capering again, belled ankles jingling wildly, grinning maddeningly, back into character, the Lord of Misrule once more.

“I thank you, brave Sir,” he chanted, then darted up to Aziraphale and took him by the shoulders, leaning in to whisper, breath hot at the shell of his ear “Angel, meet me, Southwark, the Tabard, my treat, two of the clock, if it would please you.”

Then he turned his head, placing a lightning fast and loudly sounded kiss, first on one cheek then the other, and released him, darting away with a cackle, while the angel spluttered at the assault. Crowley looked delighted, even more so as Aziraphale raised a hand to his face.

The crowd loved it. There were catcalls and kissing noises and many rude gestures from the men and women behind the angel. Crowley paused for a moment, golden, grinning, and took in the figure of Aziraphale, gaping at him, kissed and blushing.

Then he turned upon his heel, leaping round and was away, back amongst his minions who were laughing and clearly teasing him with rude noises and gestures of their own.

Red-faced, Aziraphale could only stand and watch, hands cradling his cheeks, as the rest of the procession passed by him, the musicians a blare of sound, receding as jugglers, fire eaters and fools took their place following them on, the crowd laughing and hooting at their antics. Once the sound diminished, he turned away, pushing each hand into the opposite sleeve of his robe and gripping his forearms, still feeling the phantom touch of Crowley’s hands upon his, and the ghost of his lips, warm, on both his cheeks.

He would walk to Southwark, it would not take too long.

***

**Mayfair, 2020**

Here there was a feast of kisses. They held each other close, and gazed up at the inscrutable sky, dotted with stars and a moon, hazy with its corona, a crown for the coming New Year. The Thames was washed over with silver below them as they stood together on the balcony of Crowley’s Mayfair flat. It was the best place by far, they had agreed, to see out the tired old year that 2020 had been.

It had been a difficult year, all told. So much confusion, misinformation, isolation. It had been hard for both of them to watch the humans around them dealing with their latest burden. They had been conflicted and isolated too, until they had mustered the courage to speak of their great love and found comfort in each other’s embrace.

There were to be no chimes from the gothic sprawl of buildings across from them this year. The Elizabeth Tower stood silent, the great bell, Big Ben, having been removed for restoration work, halted for now because of ongoing restrictions3. It was not possible, wrapped up in each other as they were, to tell when one year slipped into another, not precisely. Neither looked at their watches as they held each other there, suspended for a few moments in the space between one time and another, just breathing, being together, savouring that which had been denied them for so long.

“It has been quite a year,” said the angel, “such difficult times.”

“Yeah, they’re still here though, still fighting and dreaming, messing up, making good,” said the demon, ever the optimist.

“You are right, of course, my dear. They persist. I am so proud of them, sometimes, how they battle on. They are an inspiration.”

“It’s been worth it though, hasn’t it, everything?” said Crowley, thinking of the events of two years before, and all that followed on from that, catching the stormy depths of his partner’s eyes with the honeyed amber of his own

“Oh my darling, yes, all of it, every bit.”

Behind them, the silence was broken suddenly with an abrupt detonation that made the ground seem to tremble with its resonance. Fireworks began jetting into the sky, zipping in stuttered streaks to blossom and scintillate in blue-purple fiery pom-poms, blooming through each other, screams and sharp cracks echoing across the river. The new year had begun.

Crowley looked into the angel’s eyes, where he could see the flickering lights reflected. Nothing was as beautiful as the eyes of his beloved, fixed now on his, the blue flecked with green and gold.

“Time was it was Twelfth Night they celebrated, now it’s New Year, angel.”

“Yes, customs change, it’s one of the things I love about them, their endless adaptability,” there was a pause as they held each other and gazed across the timeless city, their home for centuries now, “do you remember, love? That time you danced with me?”

Crowley always seemed to know which memory he was referring to, any time they reminisced together. They tuned in to each other instinctively now, on the ineffable frequency that distinguished their own side.

“Yeah, ‘course I do,” he grinned, “the way you looked when I noticed you.”

The angel’s face was always so transparent, everything he felt was mirrored there, an open book to someone who knew him as Crowley did. That night he had looked so vulnerable as he turned his eyes to meet the demon’s gaze, the pleasure he showed in seeing him mixed with unease at what he might do, in the guise he had adopted. Crowley had wanted no more than to kiss that dubiety away, and hold him close and tenderly, but as he was forbidden that, he had grabbed his chance with the angel’s arm and spun him in the dark street while the cacophony of celebration went on around them.

“Would you dance with me again, my dearest?”

They swayed together, settled in the rhythms of their love, holding each other tenderly, slowly revolving under the stars and the sporadic light of the fireworks. Their steps were not as giddy as on that long ago night, but the touch was just as reassuring, the warmth of it that spoke of custom, constancy and comfort, so longed for, now so very present. There was no music but the beating of their unnecessary hearts, chest to chest. They leant their heads together and took a quiet moment, warm and settled, content to be in each other’s arms.

“I didn’t dare to dream, in those days, that I might have this with you,” Crowley’s voice was intimate and tender, vulnerable in this liminal moment where year met year.

“Nor me,” responded the angel, meeting his tone, “even then I loved you, my scaly rapscallion, Lord of Misrule. I loved your energy, and how you made them so happy that night, though doubtless you sold it as the spreading of sin, but I knew it was your gift, those carefree days of chaos you gave them, dear Crowley, you have ever been generous.”

“Shut up, angel, I was just doing m’ job, nothing more.”

Aziraphale smiled at the customary deflection and said nothing. They held together for a while, watching the sporadic fire in the sky overwhelm the light of the moon and stars and fall away towards the river, waves of light cascading over them both, rippling across their heads, making their hair glow like flame and ice.

“They will be alright, won’t they?”

There was that look of anguish on the angel’s face as he sought reassurance that Crowley had never been able to resist. There was no need for artifice, only truth in the balm of the words he found to offer up for the one he loved best

“Yeah, ‘course they will angel, they’re clever, they’re strong. They’ll find their way through this, just like they always have.”

Aziraphale settled into the comfort of these words as he snuggled closer into the warm arms around him. He knew his love was right. However painful it had always been to watch the humans struggle, if he had learned anything over the years, it was never to underestimate them, how they fought against what they faced, going under sometimes, yes, but never failing to surface, persevering on through whatever was thrown at them by life and each other.

“Happy New Year. It is customary, you know, my dear, to…”

The angel was looking up at him, eyes coy under his lashes. As ever, Crowley was in no position to resist, even if he had wanted to, which he very much didn’t.

“Yes, I know, angel. Happy New Year, if it will keep you quiet, for once.”

Aziraphale was blissfully happy to be silenced in this manner for some moments when warm lips met his in passion and pleasure. Their arms tightened about each other as fire cascaded around them and the weary old world continued to turn, taking them, and us, on into the future.

1The New Year began on 25th March at this time, not January 1st, so the main celebration was Twelfth Night, when everyone got drunk and did ill-advised things that they regretted when they remembered them the next day.

2Irony alert. Henry did the diametric opposite of all of these things, ensuring that Aziraphale despaired of him more and more as his reign progressed.

3 In the UK it is traditional to bring in the New Year with the sound of Big Ben ringing twelve midnight from the Houses of Parliament. People tend to think that the tower with the clock in it is called Big Ben, but the name is actually of the bell for the clock which is housed in the Elizabeth Tower. As Crowley’s flat is very near the Houses of Parliament, you would be able to hear the bell from his balcony. The whole building is currently being renovated, although work has been held up recently, and the clock is currently not working. At the New Year, the sounds of the bell tolling twelve will be broadcast on the TV and radio from a recording. We like our traditions!


End file.
